Manipulator
by AllWeHave
Summary: People thought that he made a good forger because he could act very well, or imagine his body changing in ways others couldn't. People never guessed at the real reason.


Disclaimer - the author(me) of this fan fiction does not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s).

Manipulator

People thought that he made a good forger because he could act very well, or imagine his body changing in ways others couldn't. People never guessed at the real reason. That it came to him easier than breathing- the lies, the charm, the changing and most importantly, the _manipulation_. If you could strip away the shroud of personality and swim down into the very heart of Eames you would find one word etched on his soul, Manipulator.

He use to hate that word, it felt so dirty, dark, and ugly. Manipulator, a verbal slap in the face, it use to stop his breath for a moment.

Shari said it first, sixteen and pretty and fresh, she had cried and he had smirked, no need for the act now he had gotten what he wanted.

"Bastard, manipulative bastard, I hate you," he froze, called out on his act for the first time. She had started throwing things at him too, he took a small alarm clock to the cheek before he snapped out of it. He slid out of the door melding into the shadow of the night like he belonged there, inside of him something felt raw.

The next time the word got hurled at him by his English Professor.

"You mean this was all just a game to you? The things you made me do meant nothing it was all some sort of manipulation? Did you think you'd get a better grade?" the older man's voice cracked he sounded sick.

Eames smiled, he couldn't care less about the grade, he just wanted to watch the man carefully turn over the pictures of his wife and children in his office when Eames pushed him into his chair and took him into his mouth. That night he felt the word swimming around in his stomach writhing like an eel as Eames traced the outline of the Professor's wife's face in the picture he had stolen from the off the desk.

The trend continued for years, through college, in the military, he had branched out from using it for sex to using it for nearly everything. He got promotions, raises and the best opportunities not because of his qualifications but because he could manipulate those around him, only getting caught when he wanted to make the game more interesting.

When he had been introduced to the dreams he truly found his niche in the world. He had taken to forging like a fish to water. This job required the applicant to be a manipulator of everything around them, he would no longer just manipulate others but himself as well. How exciting.

And then his mother was dying.

The cancer had taken everything from her when he finally laid her head on his shoulder and told her what her little boy did for a living.

"You manipulate these people into telling you their secrets, break into their deepest thoughts?" She had at first sounded judgmental, and sad, but after staring at him for a long moment she smiled. "You were always so good at getting your way, at least I don't have to worry, you can take care of yourself now can't you poppet." Then he told her how much it paid and how he had afforded her many treatments.

"I suppose someone would be doing it regardless at least you can profit from it," She had told him, imminently practical. But Eames could read people, especially her, she had seen the briefest glimmer of hurt in his face and she had absolved him of his guilt before she was unable to.

In that moment he turned the word into his personal banner, any time his feelings threatened to let him down or self doubt would rear its ugly head he would wave around the flag that said Manipulator in his mind. Then he would smile and go for the kill, he didn't believe his skills to be a bad thing, just the tools he used much like the rows of sharp teeth in the mouth of a shark. He ignored the fact that he enjoyed most the times when he played around just for sport. When the thrill of the game pumped him full of adrenaline and he would reek havoc just because sometimes he liked to watch the world burn.

But the doubt over whether the expression on his face was honest or not when he spoke to his mother would come to haunt him in later years.

And then came Arthur.

Perfect, prim, polished Arthur, Eames wanted him the moment he laid eyes on him, working with him only made the desire greater. However people who really knew how to do their job came around so rarely in this field Eames knew better than to give in to his true nature.

So Arthur became a business partner, sometime rival, sometime friend. Eames kept him at arms length unwilling to lose such an excellent contact. Sometimes though he would imagine it in the safety of his mind, it became his favorite fantasy. The thrill of the challenge started his blood to boil, and soon just the sight of the stoic man with his impassive face and neatly done up waist coats made Eames lips twitch to start the con, made his hands clench in desire to peel the layers away expose the real human man beneath the armor to the light of day.

Personal denial and self sacrifice just wasn't his strong suit, maybe if he didn't get caught he could have the thing he wanted most.

But Arthur wouldn't be Arthur if he didn't catch on quickly.

He hadn't looked hurt, maybe surprised, maybe a little angry and that made something in Eames lighten, he hadn't broken Arthur, just embarrassed him.

"What darling, you thought you'd be the one to trap me," Eames said, pulling the armor of sarcasm up tight over him, shoving down the part that hating himself a little bit. "It would be me and you, a team, lovers- what soul mates?" Arthur merely arched an eyebrow, but Eames saw the beginning of a blush in his upper chest, he forced the corner of his lips to quirk upwards, he wanted Arthur to know that he had seen.

"So you charm your way into people's pant for kicks, no love, no long term relationships, just the next seduction to keep you company?" Arthur questioned, face trained into a neutral expression, but Eames could hear the truth in his voice, he use to live for that tone, the break.

"Of course love, understanding what makes a person real, what they want and then being able to make them believe they can have it- you've never experienced a better drug. Doing it in real life is so much better than even doing it in a dream." Eames knew he should shut his mouth, before Arthur's surprise turned to sheer fury. But he thought that if anyone in the world could understand him, if anyone could accept him, it would be Arthur.

As soon as that thought passed through his conscious mind his body turned cold and he rose gracefully, tugged on his trousers and slipping on his shirt, knowing that down that path lives madness.

It didn't matter if someone understood, it didn't matter if they could accept it, and it didn't matter if they looked at you with liquid eyes, filled with desire and maybe anger and maybe the beginning of acceptance. The fierce need to manipulate them and to change them to turn them into something like you would overrule everything soon. You shouldn't manipulate someone you loved, but that didn't mean you wouldn't.

So he walked out into the hallway, he left Arthur lying on the bed, sheet barely covering his sharp hip bones, bruises in the shape of Eames fingers just starting to darken. He left Arthur still himself, maybe hurt, maybe confused but he would remain Arthur. For him to remain the man Eames loved he would have to remain the man Eames couldn't have.

Eames loved exposing the heart of others but that same love did not translate to exposing his own heart. If he were to cast a sharp eye on himself, set on breaking himself down, he knew he'd used Arthur, the look in his eyes, and the acceptance of the manipulations. Eames took that knowledge, swallowed it like the bitterest of pills, and locked it up so tightly in his mind that no extractor would ever find it. He would show his love by never acting on it again. For a moment he thought the brand on his soul had caught fire, it would swallow him in flames, he wanted to hurt, to not have absolution for this sin. But Eames didn't work that way.

So he shook his head, fit a smirk on his lips, turned his eyes into charm, mystery and mischief and held the elevator for a young brunette with shy eyes and cherry lips.

"Thanks for holding the elevator," she said in a quiet blushing voice.

"My pleasure love," He told her with bold eyes, a giggle escaped from her lips and she turned the best shade of pink.

Eames smiled to himself, his heart buried safely in his chest once more.


End file.
